We Don’t Talk

I sit in my recliner — much as he
would have — with his feet
at the end of my legs.

But, we don’t talk.

I see genetics at work when I’m tired
and rub my eyes
with the heel of my hand .

But, we don’t talk.

I have heard the anger of his voice
directed at my children,
but coming from my mouth,

But, we don’t talk.

I have learned through observation
the art of bitterness
and long held grudges.

We don’t talk.

1 Comment

Filed under Poetry

One response to “We Don’t Talk

  1. hypercryptical

    It is hard when we know the worst bits of ourselves, but are unable to change.
    I scold my other self whenever necessary as guilt is a burden I don’t want to carry.
    Kind regards
    Anna :o]

Some of what I write is true, some is fiction; most is merely possibility.

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